Fang Talks

He does things on the internet!

As an amateur writer I sometimes like writing short, often single-part works. Here you’ll find the ones I chose to publish for whatever reason. Enjoy.

03 11 17

Blank

‘Is this… art?’

‘I don’t see this being reasonably manufacturable.’ Norman touched his hand to the canvas. The bright white stretched up and to the side for a mile. He gave it a gentle push. ‘It’s stretched really taut, too…’
‘No, no, you got it wrong.’ Robert took a few steps back and gave the plane another long look. ‘I meant art in the same sense that crop circles are art.’
Norman did a double-take turning to face his colleague. ‘You mean, “out of this world”?’ Air quotes complemented his judgmental expression.
‘Imagine!’ But a few moments later, his enthusiasm had worn off. ‘Or like a prank to make us think so. I don’t know.’

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‘Special delivery!’ He practically kicked in the door. It wasn’t actually locked however, so his momentum sent him stumbling forward.

‘Jesus Christ, Bennet, I almost fucked this guy up.’ Andre shook his head, then put the tattoo machine back to his client’s skin. ‘Throw it on the shelf, with the rest of them.’
‘Huh?’ Bennet yelled. ‘Can’t hear ya over these beats man.’ It was true, the bass was shaking the floorboards.
A woman, late forties, was sat on a couch next to the mentioned shelf. She waved Bennet over. ‘Hi again honey. Where’s this going?’
‘Some guy Wong Lang, North Beach section C.’ He saw her brow furrow, responded with his usual nervous laugh. ‘They don’t mess around with these codenames, eh?’

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< Getting pulled through a dense stream of people, all in some uniform or another, made her acutely aware that she had been in the nude since waking up.

She slowed her pace. Resisted, pulled her arm out of his grip. He ducked into the next corridor, motioned for her to follow. ‘Anything wrong?’ he asked. Before she could prioritize her list of concerns, he pressed. ‘We need to keep going.’
‘No.’ Refusing the follow the flow of events, even just whispering a small act of defiance, it cleared her mind. ‘I want answers.’ As she verbalized the desire, it got fulfilled. Memories flooded back and nearly overwhelmed her. Were all of these… hers?

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A sharp hiss wakes her. Dazed, she pushes the cover off her capsule and sits herself upright.

Post-slumber amnesia grabs hold. Looking around, she wonders if this was the world she left behind. Hundreds of containers just like her own lined the walls. None of them looked familiar. Not the names on the displays. Not the faces within. Had she remembered it was normal to forget, she might not have panicked. But she had forgotten, albeit temporarily, and so her heart started racing. She wanted out. There was a doorway. Perfect.

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Imagine, for a second, an innocent television show.

Perhaps it’s a children’s cartoon. Maybe it’s a lazily-written sitcom. It’s filled with good, clean fun. And that’s what you had hoped to get out of watching it, but after seeing a few episodes things appear to be a bit… off. It’s incredibly subtle, but the character’s personalities and action seem to be muddled by a shared state of being. You can’t quite make it out. Anxiety?

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